


Blossoming

by kittymsmith



Series: Porkchops [8]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, One Shot, ambiguous bloodhound, bloodhound musing things the day after, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittymsmith/pseuds/kittymsmith
Summary: Bloodhound didn’t usually do this sort of thing.Then again, was it the sort of thing they thought it was?
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Series: Porkchops [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1305515
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	Blossoming

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 2am vibing to some lofi. I honestly just really enjoyed the gentle musing aspect and I hope y'all do to.
> 
> I also have a tumblr @kittymsmithwrites

Bloodhound didn’t usually do this sort of thing.

Then again, was it the sort of thing they thought it was? He was still here, the curve of his back against their side, warmth radiating off of him. _He is like a furnace_ , they thought, eyes still closed despite being awake for the better part of a half-hour. Between him and the sunlight streaming from their window, they should be sweating. But instead, they were comfortably warm, sleepy and secure warmth. In some ways an afterglow warm, a silly thought considering all the rakish debauchery had happened many hours ago, but they could remember it so well, almost making them shiver.

What had possessed them, what magnificent creature so aloof had taken hold of their hand and pulled the mouthpiece off their mask and kissed him, right over the bar, in the light, when he was in the middle of asking them if they wanted a refill on a drink they hadn’t even tasted yet. What strange phenomena had seen how he stumbled and stuttered and decided to care, to encourage and cultivate the dangerous budding plant in their chest?

They didn’t usually do this sort of thing, but when they did, when they gave in to those little nagging human desires, it was not usually the most conscious decision.

But last night, they’d been stone-cold sober, and so had he.

They hadn’t even stopped for a drink in the apartment or stopped to think of the ramifications of unclasping their mask and letting it clatter against the hardwood, watching him gawk before coming forward, pressing his thumb gently to the faded white line running from their lower lip to their chin and whispering, _“damn”_ in the best way possible.

They gently passed the back of their hand over the soft skin of his back, over muscle that was thick and practical; they were surprised as anyone that he didn’t focus on vanity musculature more, but they’d come to the conclusion he liked pork chops too much-something evident in just a little bit of squish around his hips that they’d definitely appreciated the night before. He was handsome, but he was also _cute_. And sweet. The way he’d talked was practically manufactured just to have them looking like a tomato.

He’d looked at it, that horrible blush, and grinned and teased them-which only made it worse-but at the same time kissed their rosy cheeks, nose and forehead, their stupid bright red chin, and worked his way down. He’d been fun, cracking jokes about their freckles, ghosting his fingertips across the ones on their arms. _“You know what you’re doing,”_ they had breathed.

 _“I’m just having fun,”_ he’d responded, a grin that could only be called doofy. _“Aren’t you?”_

 _I was_ , they thought, eyes flicking toward him under closed eyelids at a particularly large inhale, followed by a shift until he was on his side, facing them, the back of their hand now resting against his abdomen and the soft hair there. These things weren’t normally fun-they were enjoyable, but not fun. They didn’t happen for fun, they happened for need.

 _But I didn’t kiss him because I needed it_. They had kissed him because he was babbling, running a hand through his hair in nervous reverence. They had kissed him because his russet eyes had gold flecks in the light that seemed to dance. They had kissed him because he had four bartenders working and was still behind the counter, unwilling to let anyone else help them. They had kissed him because they _wanted_ to.

Part of them had to wonder if _Elliot_ did this sort of thing- _don’t you know how it works, trickster? You leave by sunrise; I feed Artur and spend the next three months trying not to think about how it felt to dig my nails into your back._ But it was far past sunrise, near noon if they had to guess by how the light laid over their eyelids. And he was still here, only just stirring if they had to guess. Or maybe he’d gotten up earlier, woke at sunrise like the rest but decided to stay. Was it possible he wanted to stay-that he had wanted it as much as them, not _needed_ it? His bumbling flirting was charming, but had that night been the only time he’d attempted it?

The bud had begun to grow. It paid no mind to their halfhearted protests.

 _Catching feelings_ was also not a usual Bloodhound habit. Their purpose included the exact opposite. To serve the Allfather as the ultimate warrior, to venture the world for all the knowledge they could, sacrifice in his name, and take pride in their work required very little attachment. Obviously, another person was quite a lot of attachment.

 _And yet I want it,_ the warmth of him spread through the bed of their nails, _I want it greatly._

Maybe it was a sign. A shift in the path of their fate-Freya could have weaved them a new one, Allfather’s wishes perhaps aligning, perhaps not. Could be they’d rewritten their own path, however rare it was in the weaving branches of fate.

His hand moved, touching their shoulder, then sliding down their chest to the dip of their belly, resting there. They realized he must be awake when he propped himself on an elbow, and somehow, they kept their breathing even. Even when his fingers, so soft, brushed over their hip bone, back and forth, a soft drag.

They thought for a moment if they should really let this happen, finally let that devilish little plant take hold and spread its roots through their heart. Let themself want, and maybe be wanted. His hand ran up again, over old scars without hesitating, without tiptoeing or fussing, over their chest and their far shoulder to rest by it on the mattress, to lean over so they could feel the heat coming off his chest until their lips tingled from how close he was. They held their breath, expecting it, waiting, _wanting._

But he didn’t.

He hesitated and let out the slightest sigh, pulling away. They caught the arm by their head, quick but loose fingered, so he could if he wanted to.

But he didn’t.

They opened their eyes slowly, blinking at the halo of light around him, framing his curls, his face, eyebrows raised, a curious frown softening to a smile as they focused in on him. They squeezed his arm gently, speaking softly, afraid of breaking the quiet. “If you won’t do it,” they whispered, “I will.”

He chuckled, a fuzzy little thing, leaning down again, as close as he was before and gazing at them a minute and kissing them, the little plant in their chest blossoming, because they could feel it, in the gentle soft-skinned press.

They had wanted him.

And felt wanted just the same.


End file.
